


Will to Act

by sunstarunicorn



Series: It's a Magical Flashpoint [36]
Category: Airwolf, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Flashpoint (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen, Last Man Standing, family curse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-10-29 01:10:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17798237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunstarunicorn/pseuds/sunstarunicorn
Summary: With Ed still off duty following the birth of his daughter, Greg decides to have a rotating roster of team leaders.  Wordy, still struggling with his diagnosis, isn’t so sure that’s a good idea, especially since he’s up first.  Then a typical call goes sideways, leaving Wordy as the last man standing.  Time to pick a side.





	1. Rotating Team Leaders

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the thirty-sixth in the Magical Flashpoint series. It follows "Researching the Solution".
> 
> Although all original characters belong to me, I do not own _Flashpoint_ , _Harry Potter_ , _Narnia_ , or _Merlin_.

Jules Callaghan lay face down, her eyes closed and her form almost deathly still.  Next to her, Lewis Young was just as still; he’d collapsed close enough to Jules that his shoulder and arm were brushing her back.  Both were breathing, but it was so weak and shallow that a casual observer would have been forgiven for thinking they were dead.

On the opposite side of the room, Greg Parker and Sam Braddock were also sprawled on the ground, Sam on top of his Sergeant.  The barest hint of red light traced around the fallen Sergeant, but otherwise, the two men were in much the same condition as Jules and Lou.

Outside the building, in the Command Truck, Spike Scarlatti lay in a heap, half on his toppled chair and half on the floor.  His head hung at an awkward angle, guaranteeing a crick in his neck when he woke up.  _If_ he woke up.

Next to a small pile of weapons, Kevin Wordsworth glared at the man in front of him, his hands slowly balling up into fists as he stared at the other.  His eyes were set, his shoulders rigid, and there was a coiled tension in his frame that spoke to his desire to unleash his inner fury on his opponent.

The other man’s expression betrayed not so much as hint of unease at the death glare the constable was giving him.  Light blue eyes were cold, calculating, and the man’s hair was so light colored that it was a tossup as to whether he was blond or white haired.  “My offer is quite simple, Auror Wordsworth,” the man purred.

Wordy tensed even further, but did not reply.

Inspecting his nails, the blond continued, “I can cure your Parkinson’s Disease.”  Ignoring the sharp inhale from the brunet, the man added, almost as an afterthought, “If, of course, you agree to work for me.”

“Work for you?” Wordy echoed dully.

Sharp eyes fixed on Wordy’s face and held his gaze.  Incredibly, the man smiled, a tight, vicious little smile.  “Yes, Auror Wordsworth.  You would be my inside man on Team One, my ace-in-the-hole.”  A casual mocking shrug.  “Or you can remain as you are: a man whose days on his team are numbered.”  The vicious smile grew.  “A man doomed to die with his mind in tatters and drooling like an infant.

“So what shall it be, Auror Wordsworth?  Life?  Or death?”

* * * * *

_1 hour earlier_

“How’s your arm doing?” the Sergeant asked his friend as he leaned back in his briefing room chair, the pen in his free hand tapping the armrest as he spoke with his team leader over the phone.

“Better, but the docs want to run a few more tests,” Ed Lane reported.  “Sophie told me to shut up and let them run their tests, so it’s gonna be a couple more days before I can come back.”

Greg allowed a soft chuckle at Ed’s fond, exasperated tone.  “I guess we’ll have a couple quiet days then,” he teased his team leader.  “How’s Isabel?”

A new father’s wonder was clear in Ed’s voice.  “Growing every day,” he replied.  “And she came through the C-section like a champ.”

Parker let his smile grow, focusing on Ed’s pleasure and pride in his new daughter rather than the decision that still lay ahead of his team leader.  “Treasure every day you get with her,” Greg counseled.  “And Healers or no Healers, you still took seven bullets, Eddie.  Don’t push yourself too hard trying to get back; we can manage until you’re back on your feet and cleared.”

Silence filled the phone line and Greg heard Ed’s automatic control of his reflexive reaction.  “I hear you, Boss,” Ed finally replied.  “I already told Sophie, though, if I _do_ have to leave SRU, it’s not now.  Gonna be on a higher note than me getting shot.”

“She agreed?” Greg couldn’t help questioning.

It was Ed’s turn to chuckle, though his was sad and a trifle regretful.  “Yeah, Greg, she did.  Took me awhile, but she agreed with my argument that me leaving right after the evals went so bad wouldn’t be good for the team.”

“Okay,” Greg acknowledged.  “We’ll figure the rest out when you come back, Ed.”  He glanced up at the clock and winced.  “I got to go, Eddie.”

“Copy that, Boss,” Ed rejoined.  “Talk to you later.”

“Later,” Greg agreed, hanging up.  He looked down at his binder and scrawled a quick note that Team One would _not_ have to vote on a new team leader, not today at any rate.

The Sergeant debated telling his team about his _nipotes’_ situation, but decided it could wait until Ed was back.  Fortunately, Commander Holleran had successfully lobbied Madame Locksley to delay Team One’s magic-side evals until Ed was back on duty.  In the meantime, Team One wasn’t cleared for magic-side duty, but Greg actually considered that a plus; it gave his team some breathing room after the evals, Ed’s shooting, and everything else that had hammered at them over the past few months.

Below his note on Ed’s status, Parker wrote down several names, in order of their seniority.  Since Ed was only _temporarily_ off-duty, the Sergeant was free to decide who the team’s acting Team Leader would be.  He expected that his plan would meet with some resistance, but his solution wasn’t intended to be long-term; Team One would rise to the challenge as they always did.  As the Sergeant plotted how to present his solution to his teammates, they straggled in, one at a time, looking much better than they had the week before.

Once his teammates were assembled, Greg leaned back in his chair, looking up at them with a quiet smile.  Spike and Lou were sitting next to each other, two peas in a pod with identical gleams of mischief; Parker made a note to keep an eye on them and clear of any pranks they might pull.  Opposite the duo, Wordy had his normal cheerful look; only his Sergeant could see the underlying tension of his new medical diagnosis and cautious optimism towards his treatment plan.  Past the three, Sam and Jules were sitting across from each other, but Greg couldn’t help but suspect that their position was carefully calculated to deflect any accusations that their relationship was crossing the line again.

Parker felt his gryphon instincts stir, the inner gryphon taking offense at the idea that members of his ‘flock’ were defying him; with a week of near constant practice under his belt, Greg mentally swatted the gryphon back down and told it to behave.  His expression never even twitched.  “News from Eddie,” he announced, letting his smile grow at their eager expressions.  “Nerves in his left arm are completely healed, but the docs are running a few more tests, so Ed will be back next week.”

“How’s Isabel?” Jules asked.

“Ed said she came through the C-section like a champ and that she’s growing every day,” Greg faithfully relayed.

Wordy chuckled.  “Seems like they always do,” he remarked, a fond, reminiscing look in his eyes.  “It’s the _parents_ that do all the worrying and pacing, but then you blink and your kids are that much bigger.”

Sam cleared his throat.  “So who’s team leader?”

Greg nodded soberly.  “Thank you, Mr. Braddock, for getting us back on track.  Ed tells me that he’s planning on coming back to the SRU for now, so instead of voting for a new team leader, we’re going to have a rotation of team leaders, based on seniority.”

Wordy flinched, but his Sergeant ignored it.

“That means,” Greg went on cheerfully, “This shift, Mr. Wordsworth will act as team leader.”  He nodded towards Jules.  “Jules, you’ll be up next; after you will be Lou, then Spike, and finally Sam.  We’ll keep rotating team leaders until Ed’s back on the job.”

Spike hesitantly raised a hand.  “Boss, I’m usually in the truck,” he pointed out.

Greg was undeterred.  “On days that you have team leader status, Lewis will be in the truck.”

Lou grinned, whacking Spike’s shoulder.  “Nice try,” he teased at once.

Surveying his less-than-enthusiastic team, Parker relented.  “Look, it’s only until Ed comes back and if we need to reconfigure, we will.”  His eyes sharpened, pinning his team.  “However, we cross-train for a reason.  In the field, if someone goes down, we need to be able to compensate and cover; we saw that last week when Eddie went down.”  He paused, letting them take his statement in.  “ _I_ know you can handle this, all of you.”

“What about magic-side?” Lou questioned.

Greg shook his head.  “Right now, we’re not cleared for duty and we still have to make a decision on whether we keep working magic-side or not,” he reminded the less-lethal specialist.  “Unless there’s some kind of emergency, we shouldn’t get any magic-side calls while Ed is out.”  The Sergeant waited for more questions; when there were none, he tapped the table and finished, “Workout room unless we get a call out.”

As his team filed out, Greg drew in a breath, held it, and let it out slowly.  One week without his team leader.  It was going to be a very long week.  As he was about to stand and follow his teammates to the workout room, a soft voice asked, “Sarge?”

Parker looked over and up at Wordy; the younger man was fidgeting and looked both unhappy and miserable.  “Yes?” Greg pressed gently.

“Maybe you should leave me out of the rotation,” Wordy suggested; unable to hold his boss’s gaze, he looked down.

Greg stood up, moving to stand right in front of Wordy and waiting until his constable looked up again.  “Wordy, you can handle this,” Greg informed him without an ounce of doubt in his voice.  “I wouldn’t have decided on a rotation if I wasn’t completely, one-hundred percent sure that each and every one of you could handle being team leader.”

“But…”

Greg shook his head firmly.  “Wordy, do you trust me?”

A breath, then Wordy’s shoulders straightened.  “Always, Sarge.”

“Then trust me on this.”

Gray met brown for several seconds.  A half-smile quirked Wordy’s jaw.  “Copy that, Sarge.”

* * * * *

Sam did his best not to seethe as he settled into his workout.  After Ed had gone down, he’d stepped into the team leader job without skipping a beat and he knew his leadership had been a large factor in their successful takedown of Ed’s shooter.  But here he was, shuffled to the back of the line simply because he was the _rookie_.

“Sarge is right, you know,” Jules remarked, making her boyfriend jump.

“How’s that?” Sam questioned, dividing his focus between his workout and Jules; she hopped on the treadmill next to his and brought it up to speed without replying.

For several minutes, they ran side by side, then Jules pushed her thought.  “Ed’s a great team leader, but if he ever goes down in the field, one of us will have to take over, Sam.  And you might not be in a position to take over for him.”

Sam bit back his first few replies and ran her point through his head a few times.  “So, it’s like when we have to practice negotiating, even though you and Sarge are the official negotiators?”

“Yep,” Jules confirmed brightly.  “Sarge is just doing what’s best for the team; we’re on probation, Sam.  The better we do, the less reason Toth has to break us up.”

Sam grinned involuntarily, before the real reason for his sulk came back.  “But why’d he do it by seniority instead of…”

“Instead of you?” Jules interrupted, tapping her treadmill’s controls to go faster.  “Sam, how about you look at it _this_ way: you _did_ get to go first and now it’s Wordy’s turn.”

Sam blinked, then his smile reappeared and he tapped his own controls.  “Race you to the finish,” he teased.

“You’re on,” Jules agreed, pushing her treadmill even faster.

* * * * *

The alarm blared out, halting every workout in its tracks.  “Team One, hot call,” Winnie yelled.

Wordy hustled off the bike he’d been using and out to the dispatcher’s desk, Sarge on his heels.  “Winnie, what’ve we got?” he demanded, doing his best to channel his best friend.

As Sarge came to a halt next to his acting team leader, Winnie reeled off the details.  “We’ve got a call from one of the old factories on the city outskirts; caller hung up before 911 could get details, but it sounds like we’ve got a hostage situation in progress.  Multiple hostages, caller might’ve been a hostage or a subject who got cold feet.”

“Got an address?” Wordy pressed.

“Coming your way,” Winnie replied as Wordy’s phone beeped with a new message.

Wordy paused, then turned towards his teammates and yelled, “Gear up and let’s roll.”

His glance over at his boss was anxious and uncertain, but Parker clapped him on the shoulder as he walked past, his approval obvious.

* * * * *

With Ed off-duty, there was no reason for Team One to take all four of their usual trucks.  Instead, Wordy and Jules slid into the first truck, Sam drove the second truck with Lou riding shotgun, and Greg handled the Command Truck while Spike started pulling up what data he could on their destination.

“Got a floor plan, from before the factory shut down,” Spike called.  “I’m sending it to all your phones, but there’s no guarantee that it’s exact.”

“Something is better than nothing,” Wordy opined.  “Winnie, can 911 get any more details from that call?”

“They’re working on it, but so far, just what I already gave you,” Winnie replied apologetically.  “I can tell you the factory shut down six years ago; company went bankrupt.”

“That old means unlikely to be disgruntled employees,” Greg observed.  “Unless we’re talking about an obsession, the company employees have all moved on by now.”

“Winnie, is this factory on any one’s radar?” Jules asked.  “Drug Squad or Guns ‘n’ Gangs?”

“Nothing,” Winnie informed the team.  “It’s in a bad spot, location-wise.  Not far enough out to be attractive for the types that like to keep their business out of the city, but not close enough in to be useful to the gangs or drug dealers.  This is the first time this address has popped up on any one’s radar since the factory shut down.”

“Okay, once we get there, spread out and see if we can nail down where the subjects and hostages are,” Wordy decided.  “Spike, keep pulling info on this place, let’s see if we can figure out why this factory.”

“Copy that,” Spike agreed.

* * * * *

Wordy frowned as his team burst into the medium-sized factory.  One definite disadvantage to _this_ factory was that it had only two entrances.  Despite the size of the building, the team hadn’t been able to find any other working entrances, so the subjects, if they were watching the doors, had the advantage.

He’d placed himself in the larger team, sweeping the building with Sarge and Sam in tow.  Jules and Lou had taken the factory’s back entrance and the pair had already swept the four back areas and the one small upstairs room on the building’s blueprints.  Wordy paused, flicking his mirror out to check the next room.  A quick look and he shook his head.

Instead of charging in, he asked, “Lou, Jules, anything?”

“Nothing so far,” Lou reported.  “Sarge, you hearing anything?”

Wordy flicked a look sideways as Sarge’s face tightened in concentration.  After a moment, he shook his head.  “Silencing spells?” Wordy breathed, wary of the comm.

“Possible,” Sarge acknowledged, glancing towards the next room.

Wordy’s jaw tightened.  “Jules, Lou, get in position; this is the last room.”

“Copy,” Jules agreed.  It took a few more seconds, then, “In position, Wordy.”

“On my count,” Wordy ordered, steadying his breathing and doing a last minute check of his team.  “Three…two…one, go!”

The SRU officers burst into the next room, weapons raised and ready.  “SRU!  Hands in the air!” Sam yelled.

“Weapons on the ground!  Do it now!” Wordy bellowed right next to him.

On the opposite side, Jules and Lou slammed through their own door.  “Police Strategic Response Unit!” Jules roared.

“Hands in the air!  Weapons on the ground!” Lou ordered.

There was no one in the room; the five officers came to a stop, glancing at each other as they wondered what was going on.  After a moment, Wordy paced away from his teammates.  “Spike, are we at the right address?”

“Yep,” Spike replied at once.  “Why?”

“There’s no one here,” Wordy reported, glancing around at the room they were in.

A sound came from the center of the room; Team One wheeled around, bringing their weapons up.  For a second, nothing happened, then light ripped outwards, passing harmlessly through the officers.

“What was that?” Wordy blurted, unnerved.  When none of his teammates answered, he looked at them; they were staring at where the light had come from, blank expressions on their faces.  “Guys?  Guys, snap out of it!”  Turning, he yelled, “Spike!  Get in here!”

No response.

“ _Guys, snap out of it!_ ” Wordy roared as loud as he could, even as internally he cringed at hurting Sarge’s sensitive hearing.

Then the wave of light reappeared, collapsing back in on itself.  As it passed through the SRU cops, they fell, one right after the other, until only Wordy was left on his feet.


	2. Time To Pick A Side

Wordy scrambled forward, letting his weapon drop and dangle on its strap without a second thought.  “Guys!”

He reached Sam and Sarge first, cringing at what he saw.  Both men looked like they were sleeping, but there was a blankness to their faces that reminded him, horribly, of when Sarge’s soul had been kidnapped.  _No, no, no._   Fear clenched Wordy’s heart and he reached to feel Sarge’s pulse.  As soon as he touched his Sergeant’s skin, red light traced its way over Sarge’s still form, glittering faintly, but reassuringly.  Sarge’s pulse thrummed in a steady beat under Wordy’s fingers.  Biting his lip, Wordy shifted his hand to feel Sam’s pulse, hissing in shock when his touch heralded a sweep of silver light over Braddock’s boneless sprawl.  The blond’s pulse skipped under Wordy’s fingers, then steadied.

Grim, Wordy hurried to Jules and Lou.  They lay side-by-side, Lou’s arm and shoulder brushing Jules’ back; their eyes were closed, their breathing slow, and their faces just as blank as Wordy’s other teammates.  Wordy knelt next to them, reaching for Jules first.  As with his other teammates, as soon as his fingers made contact, light outlined her: a pink hue that still held hints of his friend’s fierce protective nature.  Her pulse started weak, but quickly gained ground, though her eyes never opened.  Swallowing hard, Wordy switched to Lou, unsurprised when bronze light wrapped around the less-lethal specialist as soon as Wordy’s fingers touched his pulse.

Wordy sat back on his heels, thinking hard.  He was extraordinarily reluctant to move them at all; a combination of his training and an instinct he trusted even if he didn’t understand it.  Instead, Wordy tugged his teammates’ weapons away and carefully stacked them together in the spot where the light had come from, to mark it for future reference; after a moment’s thought, Wordy added his submachine gun to the pile…he still had his sidearm if a subject showed up.  Something nagged at him as he worked, something he’d forgotten…

 “Spike, talk to me!” Wordy ordered, whirling on his knees in the direction of the Command Truck as though he could see through the factory walls to his last teammate’s location.  “Spike!”

“He cannot hear you.”

Wordy snapped back around, his eyes narrowing at the man who stood in the center of the room, just past the pile of SRU weapons.  Pale, almost white hair was close cropped and windswept; the man’s pale blue eyes were cold, disinterested, and smugly arrogant.  His face was full and his clothing of the highest quality; he was dressed in an all white ensemble that gave him a subtle glow in the dark room.  But what caught Wordy’s attention the most was the man’s small, vicious smile; he was _enjoying_ himself.  Four good men – and woman – were collapsed, maybe dying, around him and he was _enjoying_ himself.  That, more than anything else, told Wordy what he was dealing with.

“Who are you?”

The man offered a small moue of disappointment and distaste.  “I see the standards of the Division of Mysteries have slipped over the years, Auror Wordsworth.  To think that you and your fellows have never even been given my photo.”  He tisked lightly in disapproval.  “Well, then, I suppose I shall have to introduce myself.”  His smile grew wider with an attempt at being genuine.  “I am Doctor Charles Henry Moffet.”

Wordy lunged, a snarl erupting from his throat as he threw himself at the wizard responsible for trying to start a war between the worlds, responsible for putting Sarge through a week of sheer hell, and responsible for Toth’s disastrous psych evaluations.  He flew right through Moffet, the image distorting and flexing as Wordy fell through it and hit the ground with a thump.  Wordy rolled and launched himself again, rage pulsing.  Again, he flew through the image and landed next to his teammates’ weapons.

“Are you quite done, Auror Wordsworth?”

Wordy twisted and scrambled back to his feet.  “Haven’t even gotten started,” he snarled.

Idly, Moffet inspected his fingernails.  “Pity.  I did so wish to speak to you.”

“About _what?_ ” Wordy snapped, his fists clenching.

“Why, about your illness, of course,” Moffet purred, looking up.

Wordy froze.  His voice almost a croak, he demanded, “What?”

“You have Parkinson’s Disease,” Moffet stated flatly, his eyes glittering with glee at the shock and horror Wordy couldn’t hide from him.

“How do you know that?” Wordy rasped, resisting the urge to back away from the other man.

“I know a great many things,” Moffet asserted airily, “Your…unfortunate illness is only one of the tidbits to reach my ears of late.”  A shark’s grin flashed.  “I know your team is on probation as well; quite the impressive thanks you get for your years of loyal service, yes?”

Wordy met the other’s eyes and waited for him to be done; the constable refused to respond or react beyond the fact that his fists were so clenched that his knuckles were turning white.

Shrewd pale blue eyes studied Wordy, then Moffet smirked, clicking his fingertips together and turning to face Wordy head on.  “My offer is quite simple, Auror Wordsworth,” the man purred.

Wordy tensed even further, but did not reply.

Inspecting his nails again, the blond continued, “I can cure your Parkinson’s Disease.”  Ignoring the sharp inhale from the brunet, the man added, almost as an afterthought, “If, of course, you agree to work for me.”

“Work for you?” Wordy echoed dully.

Sharp eyes fixed on Wordy’s face and held his gaze.  Incredibly, the man smiled, a tight, vicious little smile.  “Yes, Auror Wordsworth.  You would be my inside man on Team One, my ace-in-the-hole.”  A casual mocking shrug.  “Or you can remain as you are: a man whose days on his team are numbered.”  The vicious smile grew.  “A man doomed to die with his mind in tatters, drooling like an infant, and hardly able to move a muscle.”  Moffet’s eyes danced with unrestrained delight at the very thought.  “So what shall it be, Auror Wordsworth?” he inquired, an edge to his voice, “Life?  Or death?”

Wordy licked dry lips, his mind racing as he struggled to _think_.  “I went to a Healer; there’s no magical cure,” he countered.

“No magical cure that _they_ know about, yes, but I have one,” Moffet riposted.

The brunet looked down towards his friends.  “What about my team?”

The icy-cold man shrugged, unconcerned.  “I will release them from the curse; the curse will leave them suggestible enough that they will believe any story you choose to tell them.”  A considering expression crossed Moffet’s face.  “I will also see to it that your team’s probation is quietly ended.”

Wordy sucked in a shocked breath.  “You can do that?”

“I can.”

It was everything he wanted: his team out from under Toth’s thumb, himself healthy and whole – he wouldn’t have to leave his friends, his _family_ – all it would cost him was…his soul.  Wordy felt himself tremble, heard the inner part of his mind scream objections, and raised his head, miserable, but sure.

“No.”

The congeniality fell away like a mask.  “Excuse me?” Moffet demanded, his voice dangerously soft.

Wordy’s back straightened, his eyes firm.  “No.  I will not betray my team just because you _claim_ to have the cure for a disease that’s incurable.”  He swallowed hard and forged on.  “Even if you _did_ have a cure, I’d still say ‘no’.  No matter _what_ happens to me, I’m not going to turn on them.”

“And this is your final answer?” Moffet hissed, incredulous.

A single nod.  “I’m Team One and I’ll _be_ Team One _long_ after you’re in cuffs and cooling your heels in McKean,” Wordy retorted.

Silence draped the room.  Then Moffet nodded slowly.  “Very well.  I came to try you.  I hoped to find you reasonable; but, depend upon it, I will carry my point.”

“I am not working for someone who thinks it’s a perfectly good idea to start a _war_ between technology and magic!” Wordy roared, losing his temper.  “I’m not going to kowtow to someone who thinks putting my Sergeant through a week of sheer hell is fine and dandy; for sure I’m not going to trust someone who’s _trying to rip my team apart!_ ”

For an instant, Moffet was taken aback, then he smiled and applauded softly.  “Well then, you _do_ have some fire inside you, Auror Wordsworth.  I did wonder.”  The smile turned mocking.  “Let us see then, Auror Wordsworth, how well you deal with the challenge before you.  Good day.”

With that, Moffet vanished.

Wordy stared at where the madman had been, panting, then the instinct that had screamed at him to _not_ move his teammates screamed again.  His head snapped to the side, terror gripping him; he raced out of the room, bolting for the Command Truck.  “Spike!”  The big constable ignored every scrap of SRU protocol he knew as he barreled through the factory and out the front entrance, picking up his pace even more as he raced for the Command Truck, panic rising with each step.  He slammed against the side of the truck, swearing breathlessly as he yanked at the door handle and pulled it open.

“Spike!” he yelled, throwing himself up the steps and into the truck.  When he turned, he almost froze again; even in the truck’s dimness, Spike was deathly pale and still…he looked _gray_ as he lay, half on his toppled chair and half on the floor in an ungainly sprawl.  “No, no, no,” Wordy whispered, scrambling to his teammate’s side.  “Spike, hang on; don’t you _dare_ die on me, don’t you _dare_.”

One hand reached for Spike’s pulse with near supernatural speed, fueled by terror and determination.  His fingers touched and Wordy nearly screamed; Spike’s pulse was barely there.  For a beat, nothing happened.  “Spike, if you die on me, I am going to _kill you_ ,” Wordy spat, burying fear beneath anger.  “I’ll drag you by the nape of your neck outta the afterlife, just so I can kill you again.”

He swore he heard Spike laugh, though the bomb tech never even twitched.  Then his pulse strengthened and emerald light spread over Spike’s crumpled body; the grayness of his skin regained its usual tan.  Panting, Wordy felt his fingers drop away from Spike’s throat as a horrible realization struck him.

_It’s me…somehow, their_ souls _attached to_ me _._   Wordy looked up at the Command Truck’s ceiling, desperation skittering through him.  “Oh, God, it’s me.  It’s me.”  Involuntarily, he looked down at Spike and he pleaded, “What the hell do I do now, guys?”

There was no answer.


	3. Last Man Standing

Wordy let himself sag against the Command Truck’s desk, despair pushing at him; he was no wizard and he had _no_ idea why he’d been spared…whatever this was.  Gray eyes fell to Spike’s crumpled, far too still form and the constable shuddered.  He couldn’t give up, couldn’t let Moffet win.

But first things first.  “Winnie?” he croaked, then he shook his head and repeated, louder, “Winnie?”  _Please don’t let this have happened to her, too…I don’t think I can get there in time._

“Wordy?  What’s wrong?” Winnie asked.  “I’ve been pulling more background on the factory in case you guys need it.  Had to go to the archives, which--”

“No, forget it,” Wordy rasped.  “Winnie, it was a trap; it was a trap and now I’m the only one left.”

The dispatcher gasped in horror.  “Wordy…”

“They’re alive,” the brunet managed, brushing away a single furious tear.  “Get Holleran; he needs to hear this, too.”

“I’ll be right back,” Winnie promised.

It seemed to take forever, but, in reality, it was only thirty seconds before Commander Holleran’s voice came on the comm.  “Wordsworth, what’s going on?”

“Sir, it was a trap,” Wordy explained.  “Everyone else is down and I have no idea if this thing is a one-time event or if this area needs to be quarantined.”

Holleran’s silence spoke volumes.  Then, firmly, “Wordsworth, start at the beginning.”

Right…report…  Wordy grimaced, sneaking one hand down to touch Spike’s throat, checking his pulse again.  Slowly, carefully, the constable explained, only leaving out what, exactly, Moffet had tempted him with.

When he was done, the comm went quiet as Holleran thought over his constable’s report.  Then, “You think these…lights…are your teammates’ _souls_?”  Incredulity rang in the commander’s voice, disbelief soaking the words.

“Yes, sir,” Wordy replied, “I’ve seen red light around Sarge before and that’s what it meant that time.  And by the time I got to Spike, he was…” Wordy choked, staring unseeing at the Command Truck’s wall.  “He was almost dead, sir, until I touched him and green light appeared around him; then he was fine…as fine as any of them are.”

He could tell Holleran was skeptical, but the commander moved on.  “Any idea of how far this effect extends?”

Wordy frowned.  “At least to the Command Truck, sir, but beyond that, I’m not sure.”  He drew in a breath.  “Sir, we need help – _I_ need help.  I have no idea what to do, how to help them.”

“You want to call in the Auror Division?”

“Yes, sir.”

It was Holleran’s turn to hesitate, then the commander sighed heavily.  “Constable, if you call them in, you’ll be committing your team to working magic-side again.”  Wordy swallowed hard at that.  “But it’s your call, Wordsworth; if you feel that the only way to help your teammates is Auror backup, then I’ll back you up.”

“But?”

Another sigh.  “Sergeant Parker was going to tell all of you after the evaluations.  I suspect he’s been holding off until Constable Lane returns to duty, but if you’re going to make this call, you need to know.”

“Know what, sir?”

Holleran hesitated, clearly reluctant to break Sarge’s confidence, then he quietly informed Wordy, “Sergeant Parker informed me that if Team One made the choice to leave the Auror Division, his niece and nephew would likely face an increased risk of ending up in Unspeakable hands.”  Wordy bit back a gasp; Winnie did not.  “Also, he’s pulled them out of the Toronto School of Magic indefinitely and, last I heard, he was looking into enrolling them in St. John’s High School.”

Well, _that_ explained why Sarge had been oh-so-carefully dancing around asking Wordy his opinion on several local high schools, both public and private, a few days ago.  Even so, Wordy’s gut screwed itself in knots at the idea of making a decision his Sergeant had intended for the _whole_ team to make…not just a single, last-man-standing, desperate constable.

As if in agreement, Holleran continued, “Wordsworth, I’m not sure Sergeant Parker thought of this, but it’s possible that if your team _stays_ in the Auror Division, _you_ will be ordered to turn his niece and nephew over to the Unspeakables.”

“ _What?_ ”

Bluntly, Holleran replied, “Wordsworth, I don’t trust most of these people any farther than I can throw them.  It wouldn’t be the first time an unpleasant order has been given with the sole purpose of forcing a subordinate’s hand.”  He paused, then tacked on, “Let’s just say I wouldn’t put it past them.”

Wordy swallowed harshly.  The commander made a good point, but he _needed_ help…his _team needed_ help.

Winnie came to his rescue.  “Sir, what if we call Detective Onasi?  He and Roy are still on suspension, but he might have some ideas.  And _he’s_ not likely to take Constable Wordsworth calling him as a promise to keep working magic-side.”

Commander Holleran considered Winnie’s point.  “Wordsworth?  What do you think?”

“It’s probably our best shot short of calling Madame Locksley,” Wordy remarked flatly, pulling his phone free from its protective pocket.  He thumbed it on, thankful that the phone’s magical security meant he didn’t have to use a PIN or anything else to unlock the phone.  He input the commands to hook the phone to his headset and hit Giles’ speed dial.

“Detective Onasi speaking.”

“Giles, it’s Wordy.”  Wordy looked down at Spike, watching faint emerald light curl around his teammate’s form.  “I need your help.”

* * * * *

Giles let out a low whistle as Wordy finished explaining.  “Wow, your team sure doesn’t do things halfway, do you?  I can’t even remember the last time I had to deal with a family curse.”

“Family curse?” Wordy questioned, his voice puzzled.

“Sure sounds like one,” Giles remarked, moving over to a curious Roy and waving for the other man’s phone.  “I mean, think about it.  Magically speaking, what’s the biggest difference between you and the rest of your team?”

“Well, I’m a Squib, but Sarge and Sam are Squib-born.”

Giles waved that away.  “Focus on the Squib part, Wordy; curses like this are developed by individual families, but those families don’t want the curses to affect their _own_ family members.  The curse _has_ to identify family members by blood, not magic; everyone’s magic is different, but blood isn’t.”

“Can you come and help?” Wordy asked hopefully.

“No,” Giles countered at once.  “You were wondering whether this is a one-off or an area effect spell?  Most family curses like this are area effect and _I_ almost certainly don’t have the blood relations to be unaffected.  We need someone with a similar family tree to yours; I doubt you have enough magic to stop this curse on your own.”

Wordy audibly bit back a string of swear words.  “Most of my so-called family is in Azkaban,” he hissed.

“Most?” Onasi inquired, his tone as light as he could make it.

Wordy was silent for several seconds.  Then, grimly, “Sarge would kill me.”

The lightness fell away.  “Wordy… _Kevin_ …as of right now, he’s not going to be _alive_ to kill you.  You can keep them alive – for now – but you can’t break this curse.  And so long as this curse is around your location, no one else can either…not unless they’re related to whichever family _created_ this curse.  Sooner or later, _someone_ has to break the curse or they’ll die; humans aren’t _meant_ to exist like this, Kevin.”

“We don’t know this curse is a Lestrange one,” Wordy pointed out; Giles inclined his head in acknowledgement.

“Then we need more information,” the Auror murmured.

“How do we get that?”

Giles tapped his fingers on his table, thinking hard.  “Scout around, see if you can figure out how wide the area this curse affects is; if we can figure out the rough dimensions, then we know that much more about this thing.  Kevin, trust your feelings on this one; if this _is_ a family curse, your blood connection to it gives you an inside look at how it works and how far it spreads.”

“And you?”

A grimace spread on Onasi’s face.  “I’m going to get more information on _this_ end.  I’ll trade phones with Roy so you can keep in contact.  Once I get the background, who should I call?”

“Winnie or Commander Holleran.”

“Copy that.”

* * * * *

Wordy forced himself to leave the Command Truck, squinting in the sunlight as he slid out of the truck.  With a deep breath, he turned and walked to the truck’s front end, mentally tracing a line between him and the room where his other teammates lay unconscious.  Cautiously, he took a step past the Command Truck’s grille, then another.  He shifted to take another step, then felt himself freeze in place as alarm squeezed his chest and his instincts clamored warning.

“Roy, I think it’s gotta be a family curse,” Wordy reported, turning and achingly careful to trace an invisible circle around the curse’s origin point as he walked; it was far easier than it should have been, as though something was whispering to his subconscious and telling him how far he could go without hurting his friends.  “Giles was right; I can tell exactly where the effect stops.  Winnie, you got the factory blueprints?”

“I’ve got them,” Winnie confirmed.  “What do you need?”

Wordy rubbed his face and played with his phone, pulling up the aerial blueprints and studying them.  “The curse was in the factory’s front office area,” he began slowly, “In the office area’s center room.”

“What part of the room?”

A mirthless smirk.  “If it wasn’t the center, it was darn close.”  A breath.  “I think the edge of the effect is ten, twelve meters from the factory’s front entrance, but the entrance is off to the side.”

“Copy,” Winnie murmured, frowning; Wordy heard her keyboard clicking as she tried to narrow down their numbers to something halfway solid.  “Okay, rough estimate, but I’d say the spell’s affecting a fifty meter radius, maybe a bit more.”

It sounded right, felt right.  “Okay, let’s go with that,” Wordy decided.  “I’m gonna check on the guys again.”

* * * * *

“I need your help.”

The Unspeakable looked up at the young Auror his assistant had just shown in; Giles Onasi was tightly coiled and clearly upset.  One shaggy brow arched.  “Has something happened?”

A grim nod, then the Auror laid out the chain of events, finishing with, “We don’t know which family this curse is from, sir.  Given how interrelated the British purebloods are, it could be _any_ family, not just the Lestranges.”

Leaning back in his chair, the Unspeakable nodded thoughtfully.  “Your point is well taken, young man.  And to risk our young Wild Mages on a _suspicion_ does not sit well with me, either, but I doubt that it matters.”

“Sir?”

A sly look crossed the Unspeakable’s face.  “Are you familiar with the concept of a wild card, Auror Onasi?”

Giles frowned, searching his memory.  “From Muggle card games, sir?”

“Quite so,” the Unspeakable agreed.  “Consider this curse as one that is associated with a particular suit of cards; Auror Wordsworth is fortunate enough to _be_ in that suit of cards, while his teammates – obviously – are not.  However, a _full_ Wild Mage acts as a wild card; their magic permits them to appear to be in the curse’s acceptable range, regardless of whether they truly are or not.”

“So they can enter the curse without fear of reprisal,” Onasi breathed.

“Exactly,” the Unspeakable confirmed.  He rose and moved to a shelf full of books.  “However, I suspect that we are, indeed, dealing with a Lestrange family curse; Auror Wordsworth’s status as a Squib dictates that he is limited to his suit of cards, to continue my analogy.  Only a family that he is related to within two, perhaps three if he is lucky, generations would leave him unaffected by a family curse.”

Pulling a tome from the shelf, the Unspeakable returned to Onasi, holding the book out.  “After the Lestranges were sent to Azkaban for the torture of the Longbottoms, everything in their family manor was confiscated; their original family grimoire was surrendered to the British Department of Mysteries.  The Department made copies of the grimoire and sent them to all allied magical nations as a check against the curses inscribed within.  I have little doubt that is how Moffet managed to get his hands on the curse in the first place, but now we can counter his use of it.”

“Anything else?” Giles questioned, taking the tome.

“Yes,” the Unspeakable replied, his silver eyes grim.  “You must find the source of the curse to remove it.  From your description, I would hazard a guess that the source is below the room where the effect began.”

Giles nodded and turned to leave.

“Auror Onasi.”

Onasi looked back.

“Good luck.”

Giles drew in a deep breath.  “Thank you, sir.”

* * * * *

It was easy to talk the two kids into coming to help; Giles couldn’t help but smile as he Side-Along Apparated the teenagers to the road leading to the abandoned factory, well outside the boundaries of the curse.

The three regarded the factory for some long moments and Giles was quietly proud that the two teens’ shoulders straightened for the task ahead.  Onasi raised his partner’s phone and called Winnie.  “Auror Camden?  Auror Onasi; I’ve got the backup Auror Wordsworth requested.”


	4. Lestrange Blood

Uncle Wordy looked pathetically glad to see them and even more relieved when the teens stepped across the curse’s invisible boundary without any ill effects.  Lance gave his uncle a quick grin and headed for the Command Truck; it was worth seeing if he and ‘Lanna could wake Uncle Spike up before doing anything else.

“Lance?” Alanna asked as her brother pulled the Command Truck door open.

“Just give me a sec, ‘Lanna.”  Lance ducked inside, unsurprised when his sister and Uncle Wordy followed.  Seeing Uncle Spike sprawled in a graceless heap on the floor, eyes closed and breathing shallow, hurt, but Lance was comforted by the glitter of emerald fire around the bomb tech’s body.  The young Wild Mage reached out, resting his hand on Uncle Spike’s neck; gold lit up the Command Truck, weaving itself into Uncle Spike’s emerald light and strengthening it.

It took a minute, but before long, Uncle Spike was completely outlined by an emerald glow; despite the steady blaze of light, he didn’t wake.  Lance frowned at that, though he was comforted by the fact that Uncle Spike’s pulse went from slow and skipping to steady; his breathing, too, steadied out.  Disappointment shone on the teenager’s face as he pulled his hand back and turned to his two companions.

“Hey, that’s better than _I_ did,” Uncle Wordy pointed out with a self-deprecating smile.  “Got enough left that you can do that for the others?”

Lance returned the smile.  “Sure thing,” he chirped.  “We need to go inside anyway, right?”

Uncle Wordy nodded, backing up and turning to leave the Command Truck.  Alanna followed him, Lance on her heels.  The teen paused before going down the steps, looking back at Uncle Spike.  “We’re gonna fix this,” Lance whispered, “I promise.”

* * * * *

Inside, Alanna raced to Aunt Jules and Uncle Lou, leaving Lance with Uncle Sam and Uncle Greg.  As Uncle Wordy looked on anxiously, Lance concentrated on Uncle Sam first, gold and silver twining together until silver light swirled around the fallen blond.  On the opposite side of the room, violet twisted around pink, bolstering the lighter color until it glittered fiercely.

Alanna moved to Uncle Lou, her violet light slipping under his bronze glow and carefully strengthening it.  Lance, in the meantime, regarded his uncle with a tight grimace.  Already his uncle lived with the effects of his _nipotes’_ Wild Magic bolstering his own…and that was _without_ deliberately adding more.  But his uncle’s red light was fading and Lance knew better than to think that he could last until his nephew, niece, and teammate figured out the curse he was under.  Sapphire turned gold and that gold leapt outwards, mixing with Uncle Greg’s red outline.  The two colors blended together, the golden light turning red even as Lance sent more of his magic to bolster his initial burst.

He heard Uncle Wordy’s sharp intake of breath, but didn’t turn away from his uncle until the red light was bright enough to obscure its owner’s features.  Then, and only then, did he pull his magic back, strangling his regret for giving his uncle yet _more_ magic to deal with.  “Done.”

“Is Sarge turning into a Wild Mage?”

Lance froze at the question, staring down at his uncle’s form.  “I hope not,” he replied, lifting his head.  “It shouldn’t be possible, but Wild Magic seems to _like_ doing the impossible.”

“He’s not,” Alanna put in, coming over.  “His magical core isn’t big enough.”  When both looked at her, she shrugged.  “I was bored one day, so I worked out the theory of how much magic a Squib would need to become a full wizard.  Big brother mine would have to pump Uncle Greg full of magic every day for at least a year for him to have a big enough magical core for even the simplest spell.”

“Cumulative effect?” Lance questioned, pushing himself upright.

Alanna considered that, twisting a lock of hair that was finally getting long enough to resemble her pre-aneurysm hair style.  “You’d still need the year,” she announced.  “Even Wild Magic can’t change what he was born with.”

“How ‘bout we debate this later.”  It was not a request and both teenagers knew it; they gave their uncle an apologetic look.  “Okay,” Uncle Wordy continued, “Where do we start?”

Lance returned his question with one of his own.  “Where’d the curse start?”

Uncle Wordy waved to the pile of guns.  “I marked it,” he explained shortly.

Alanna moved to the guns, ignoring the fact the Uncle Wordy hastily shifted all the weapons out of the way.  Kneeling, the young Wild Mage placed both palms flat on the floor and sent her power spiraling downwards.  Violet light glittered around her as she quested for the curse’s source.  “Got it,” she hissed.  “One floor down.”

Uncle Wordy frowned.  “There _isn’t_ a lower floor,” he protested.

“Can we see the blueprints?” Lance asked instead of wasting time arguing.  In moments, the blueprints floated above his uncle’s phone and Lance poked at it cautiously, searching for the way down he _knew_ had to be there.

Alanna joined them, studying the plans just as intently.  “It’s not on the blueprints then,” she mused, her eyes intent as she looked around the room they were in.  “But it _must_ be here somewhere.”

“Something hidden?” Uncle Wordy hazarded thoughtfully.

Lance looked down, letting the pieces of the puzzle shift and move in his mind.  An idea presented itself for inspection.  “Alanna, you got the grimoire?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Gimme.”

Alanna handed over the grimoire and conjured an orb for light as her brother flipped through the book, muttering under his breath as he scanned the pages.  Suddenly, he paused, reading an entry much more carefully.  He read it a second time, then nodded to himself and looked up.

“What’ve you got, kiddo?”

“I think the curse might be keyed to you, Uncle Wordy.”

* * * * *

 “Keyed to me?” Wordy questioned at once, a sinking feeling in his gut.  “So it’s…my fault?”

Lance shook his head at once.  “Only in the sense that you were the first Lestrange to get close once it was set up,” he explained at once, before casting about for a tech-friendly explanation.  “Um…it’s not the best, but…maybe think of this curse as having a tripwire trigger.  You hit the tripwire and triggered it, but that’s not your fault.”

Wordy rocked back on his heels.  “But because _I_ triggered it, it’s keyed to me?”

Both heads nodded.

“How does that help us?”

Lance met his gaze.  “If I lend you enough magic, you can lead us straight to the source; you already have enough magic that you could tell where the boundary is.”

Wordy’s eyes were skeptical.

“Where’d the curse come from?” Alanna asked suddenly.

Without thinking, Wordy pointed to the spot.  Shaking his head, he protested, “I saw it, guys; I’m trained not to forget things like that.”

“Will you try?” Lance asked softly.

Wordy drew in a breath, glanced at his teammates, then back at solemn sapphire and nodded.

Lance stepped forward before Alanna could, his gold rising and curling around Wordy.  It was like night and day compared to the girl’s magic; if Alanna’s magic was a kitten, shy and playful, Lance’s was a war horse, courageous and unyielding in its protective nature.  If Alanna’s magic twined around his ankles, purring as it made itself at home, Lance’s waited for him to make the first move; reaching out, he mounted snorting, eager magic that blazed through his blood and bones like lightning.  Wordy couldn’t help the gasp as gold filled him.  It was like standing at the edge of a cliff and leaping off, secure in the knowledge that you could _shift_ and catch the wind like an eagle; it was like facing a nearly impossible challenge and thrilling in the danger, knowing in the depths of your soul that you were _born_ to handle it.

Gray eyes blazed gold and his inner blue fire leapt out, for once not hurting him a bit; he _knew_ where to go.  Briskly, Wordy strode out of the room, the teenagers scrambling after him as he moved to a section of grating on the factory floor.  He reached down, grasping a strap that should’ve blended right in, but stood out to the constable as if someone had painted it red.  He pulled, frowning as it resisted him.

Before either teen could offer a helping hand, Wordy growled, adjusted his grip, and yanked the panel up, ripping it clear out of the floor and contemptuously tossing it to the side, out of his way.  A staircase loomed just below the constable and he leapt down onto it, turning his attention back to finding the source of the blasted curse.  The constable’s boots thumped on the stairs as he stalked down them, his attention riveted on an innocuous orb laying on the floor of the factory’s hidden basement.

When he reached it, the constable crouched, eyes narrow and angry; one hand stretched out, but Alanna grabbed his wrist from the side.  “Don’t touch it!”

Gray glinted gold and Wordy snatched his hand away with another growl, only to be seized from behind and yanked away from his prize.  Magic surrounded him, stifling his struggles before he could even squirm.  “Lion’s Mane,” Lance panted.  “I think you got a taste of my Animagus form, Uncle Wordy.”

Wordy sagged in the grip of Lance’s magic as the golden, giddy feeling faded, leaving him drained.  “What _was_ that?” he managed.

Lance and Alanna traded looks.  “Maybe with Alanna’s magic, her Animagus form couldn’t affect you because it’s only meant for girls,” Lance offered up.  “But with _my_ magic, we’re both guys, so you got the full effect of my gryphon form, _plus_ my magic.”

Alanna nodded agreement.  “You ripped that panel right off its hinges, Uncle Wordy.”

“I did?”

Both of them nodded vigorously.

Wordy frowned; he vaguely remembered the thrill of magic surging through him, the feel of _knowing_ what he had to do to protect his friends, and being pulled away before he could do it.  He tried to move, but the magic around him held him fast.  “Um, I think I’m good now, kids.”

Lance studied him, then let the magic dissipate.  “Don’t touch the orb,” he ordered; Wordy bristled, feeling an alien indignation that a young brat thought he could push his elders around.  It only lasted a second, then Wordy felt even more drained than before.

Looking past the teen to the cause of all the trouble, Wordy shuddered.  “What now?”

Alanna conjured another light orb and Lance flipped the grimoire open, comparing something in the book to the white orb; at one point, Lance even gave Alanna the grimoire while he pulled his new wand out and cast a few diagnostic spells around the marble orb.  Wordy stayed where he was, panting, out of breath, and grateful he didn’t have to live with that alien set of emotions every day.  If _that_ was what it meant to be a Wild Mage, he _didn’t_ want to be one.

“Okay, I think I got it,” Lance announced, looking up from the orb.  “Alanna, can you take the grimoire upstairs and come back?”

“Sure,” Alanna agreed, vanishing back up the stairs.

Lance’s gaze turned to Wordy.  “This will end the primary part of the curse and everyone can be moved after I do this, but they won’t wake up till the second part of the curse either dissipates on its own or gets dispelled.”

“I hear a catch coming,” Wordy grumbled.

“Two catches, actually,” Lance replied, regret clear in his voice.  “First, when I deal with the primary part of the curse, you’re going to feel it.  I don’t know _how_ exactly, but I bet it’s going to hurt.  A lot.”

Wordy swallowed hard.  “And?”

“And _you_ have to dispel the second part of the curse.”

“How the heck do I do that?”  He had no desire to feel the golden giddiness that, right now, felt like the high to top all highs; Wordy shuddered.

Regret shone in the teenager’s eyes.  “From what I read, the Lestranges created this curse so they could manipulate large groups of people at once.  The first part of the curse ties the victims to the Lestrange who cast the spell – or triggered it in your case.  When the Lestrange who cast the spell touches the vessel for the spell, the second part activates.”

“That’s why you didn’t want me to touch it,” Wordy breathed.

Lance nodded.  “Didn’t realize my magic would push you to touch it or I would’ve warned you.  Sorry about that.”

Wordy waved the apology away.  “What would that have done?”

Lance looked down, sorrow in his eyes.  “For the rest of their lives, they would’ve been compelled to believe you on anything you said and protect you from anything they – or you – perceived to be a threat.”

It took a moment to register, to read between the lines of what Lance _wasn’t_ saying, then Wordy swore, loudly and viciously; he didn’t even care that Sarge was going to have his hide for swearing in front of the kids.  Without thinking, Wordy turned and drove one fist into the nearby wall, yelping as his hand objected to the impact – vigorously; he’d accidently punched brick.

When he looked back, both teens were wide-eyed.  “I didn’t even know you could _do_ things like that,” Alanna whispered to her brother.

“You can’t,” Lance whispered back.

Chagrin flooded the constable.  “Um, I don’t suppose you could just forget I said any of that?”

“Said what?” Alanna asked with perfect innocence and an angelic smile.  “ _I_ didn’t hear you say anything.”

Wordy flashed her a limp smile, then focused on Lance.  “How do we get rid of the second part of the spell without hurting them?”

“There’s an escape clause in the spell.  Probably for if the Lestranges accidently got someone they didn’t want to um…control,” Alanna explained.  “You’re going to have to do it five times, though, ‘cause it’s only meant to be used on one person at a time.”

Wordy rubbed his face.  “Shouldn’t that apply regardless of whether I touch the orb or not?”

“Usually, yeah,” Lance agreed, “But whoever cast this spell didn’t do it right; probably on purpose.”

“Figures,” Wordy groaned.  “So to make the escape hatch valid again, you have to destroy the orb?”

Twin nods.

Wordy sucked in a breath and nodded.  “Okay, do it.”

Alanna moved over to Wordy and Lance turned towards the orb, drawing his wand.  “ _Reducto_ ,” he hissed; the orb shattered as the blue curse struck it.

Wordy’s world turned black as he went down, twisted blue and acid green flaring around him and chasing him into darkness.


	5. Trap for Whom?

He woke with a migraine headache and his body felt like he’d been beaten to a pulp.  Groaning, Wordy tried to push himself up right, but his arms were as weak as overcooked noodles.  Fortunately, his groan attracted attention; the next thing he knew, Ed was helping him sit up on the hospital bed.

“So much for a quiet couple of days without me, huh?”

Wordy groaned again, then cringed as light flooded the dim area and a woman entered.  Shrewd pale brown eyes regarded him, all but snapping fury in his direction.  “So…” Healer Susan Travis observed, an edge of disgust and sarcasm in her voice, “You’re awake.”

Ed blinked in confusion at the hostility, but Wordy shrank back as much as he could.  A family curse…that _he_ had triggered – oh, _wonderful_ , Travis thought _he’d_ done it…

The Healer held up a vial of potion, the disgust deepening.  “I suppose you’d like this, yes?”

“Stop taunting him,” Ed ordered, blue flashing.  “What happened _wasn’t_ his fault.”

Skepticism gleamed.  “Then why is his magical signature all over them?”

“We told you.”  Lance and Alanna slipped inside the curtain separating the small exam ‘room’ from the main part of the larger hospital room.  Sapphire glinted in anger and challenge.  “It’s a Lestrange family curse, but the only thing Uncle Wordy did was trigger it.”

Travis glared, but Ed straightened, glancing over at the tense, hurting brunet constable.  “What, like tripping a land mine?”

The Healer froze, her head snapping to the team leader, but Alanna managed a tiny smile.  “Exactly,” she confirmed.  “Only, instead of hurting Uncle Wordy, it hurt everyone else.”

Grimacing as his pounding headache protested all the light and noise, Wordy rasped, “Not so sure about the not hurting _me_ part, kiddo.”

The young Healer sighed in resignation and defeat, flicking her wand in a diagnostic movement.  She noted down the results, then stepped forward and finally offered the potion vial.  Headache Relieving Potion.  Wordy’s hand trembled as it came up, but the constable managed to toss the potion down his throat and swallow before the taste registered.  He made a face as the bitter taste hit his tongue, but the migraine fading away was more than worth it.

“The guys?” Wordy asked.

“Except for being flat on their backs unconscious, they’re fine,” Ed replied.  “I’d ask you what the heck happened, but Holleran already told me.”

“The curse still needs to be dispelled,” Travis informed them, her expression warmer, but suspicions lurked in her gaze.

“It will be,” Lance said, firm, but polite.  “Thank you, Healer Travis; we’ll take it from here.”

The Healer stiffened.  Sparks fairly flew as she whirled on the teenager.  “You cannot _possibly_ be suggesting I leave the lot of you _alone_ with _five_ helpless Aurors!”

The young man returned the near accusation with an arched brow.  “You honestly think my sister and I would risk our guardian?”

Travis flinched; on the bed, Wordy sternly suppressed a cringe.

“Think what you want about Wild Magic, Healer Travis, but you already _tried_ to lift the curse and failed.  _We_ know how to fix this, so why don’t you go back to keeping everyone away from here and _we’ll_ handle the rest.”

Though the words had a tenor of a suggestion, Lance’s jaw was set and unyielding, the furious glint in his eyes reminiscent of his uncle.  Travis, for all her experience, would not win this battle and she knew it.  For several minutes, the antagonists glared at each other, then the Healer’s lip curled and she stomped out, singed ego wafting in her wake.

When she was gone, Wordy huffed a sigh of relief, grateful for the reprieve from the fallout of Moffet’s not-so-little ploy to manipulate his team.  “Now what?” he asked.

Ed glanced back and forth between his friend and the solemn kids.  Sorrow gleamed in the sapphire that turned to Wordy, though Lance’s expression softened.  “Now, we fix the problem.”

Wordy swallowed hard, understanding what the teen hadn’t said.  Remembering, too, what both kids had said before destroying that marble orb of doom.  _He_ had to fix the ‘problem’.  “Okay,” he whispered, then glanced up at his best friend.  “You know where they are?”

Ed grunted; he’d obviously been hoping to get a few more details from Wordy first.  “They’re outside.”  Ed’s questions were clear and Wordy looked down, shame flooding him.

Still, sitting here wasn’t going to get rid of that curse on his teammates, so Wordy struggled to his feet – and promptly fell on his face.  Or, he would have, if not for Ed’s quick grab.  “Slow down, Wordy; you’re in rough shape.”

“Got something I gotta do, Ed,” Wordy managed.

Ed shook his head at Wordy’s stubborn, pleading look.  “The things I’ve done since I found out about magic,” Ed grumbled, hefting his friend up and supporting him to a thick tan curtain serving as a makeshift door.

“Tell me about it,” Wordy agreed.

Alanna pulled the curtain aside and Lance ducked back, letting the two adults out first.  Past the curtain, Wordy looked around, his heart sinking at the still forms in the neat row of hospital beds.  Turning back to the kids, his heart sank further at the look of apology on Lance’s face; he was going to have to use _Lance’s_ magic, not Alanna’s.

“Any chance we can do it differently?” the constable asked hopefully nonetheless.

Lance shook his head.  “We’re already in uncharted waters, Uncle Wordy.  Sorry.”

Ed looked between the two as Wordy sighed and held out one hand.  “How do I do this?” the brunet asked, resigned to the inevitable.

Alanna gave Wordy as much of a smile as she could.  “No Latin,” she reassured Wordy.  “You have to tell each person that you’re releasing them from the Lestrange family’s service.”  Ed’s eyes went wide as he put the rest of the puzzle together.

 

“I hear a ‘but’ coming,” Wordy complained.

“You might have to say it in Italian for Spike and Uncle Greg,” Lance put in.  “We’re going to do the other three first and Alanna’s gonna feed you your lines the first time.”

Wordy hung his head; hadn’t he dealt with _enough_ for one day?

“Wordy?” Ed asked cautiously.  “You need a few?”

Startled gray eyes came up.  “You’re not mad?”

Ed jerked back, just as startled.  “For what, Wordy?  It’s not _your_ fault this happened.”

Wordy’s smile was weak, but there.  Swinging his attention back to Lance and Alanna, his jaw firmed.  “Let’s do this.”

Lance gripped Wordy’s wrist, his eyes blazing gold as he summoned his magic.  For the second time that day, Wordy felt the thrill of riding a storm of magic: wild, free, and invincible.  He straightened, his legs taking his weight again and a buzz in his ears; his own magic gleefully embraced the golden fire.

Feeling as though he was observing himself from a distance, Wordy walked to the first bed, golden-gray eyes taking in Jules on the bed.  The pink glow around her made him nod in approval.  Alanna never had a chance to open her mouth as the words spilled from Wordy’s, prompted by the magic swirling around him.  “Julianna Callaghan, I release you from the Lestrange family’s service; so mote it be.”

The pink light soaked into Jules’ skin and her eyes opened for an instant before she sighed and sank down again.  But Wordy scarcely noticed as his feet carried him to Lou’s bedside and then Sam’s to repeat the procedure; as with Jules, their light soaked into their skin as they were released from the curse.  Instead of fading each time Wordy used it, the magic inside him seemed to gain strength with each repetition.

Wordy was barely aware of his own actions as he reached Spike’s bedside.  “Michelangelo Scarlatti, ti libero dal servizio della famiglia Lestrange; così va bene.”  The Italian tripped off his tongue with nary a stumble, as though he’d been speaking the language all his life.

The magic inside him roared even higher; he didn’t see as Spike’s eyes opened – and stayed open.  Didn’t even see his Sergeant as he halted next to the man’s bed and repeated the release clause with a hoarse, rasping voice.  He swayed, knowing he was done, but it felt like the magic within him was beginning to burn from the inside out and he was helpless to stop it.

_“Let go.”_

Wordy shook his head, confused by the voice in his head and unable to comprehend what it wanted.

_“Let go of the magic, Uncle Wordy.”_

He didn’t know how; dully, Wordy turned his head towards the speaker and vaguely recognized the young man.  _Blood-traitor,_ his mind whispered; hate narrowed his eyes.

Sapphire flashed in alarm, then the blood-traitor grabbed his arm, holding on for dear life as Wordy automatically fought to get loose.  More bodies crashed onto him, taking him down; he snarled and bucked, fighting with everything he had to get free.  The magic pulled away from him sharply and he reflexively snatched at it, a voiceless rage seizing him.  In the depths of his mind he heard something _snap_.  Then the pressure in his head was gone and he slumped to the ground as reality reasserted itself.

“…dy?  Wordy, talk to us.”

_Sarge?_

“…e on, buddy, don’t do this to us,” someone else begged.  “You got us through this, don’t give up on us now.”

_Spike?_

Hands rested on his back and shoulders, silent, but there.  The last flashes of Wild Magic whispered their names and Wordy bit back a sob of sheer relief.  Lou, Sam, and Jules.

“…eg, move,” a commanding voice demanded.  A shadow moved and Wordy felt one more hand touch him.  “Wordy, no one could’ve done any better than you did today, pal.  No one.  Not even me.  Now, come on, snap out of it.”

“Hurts,” Wordy managed to rasp out.  It felt like someone had run a hot wire through every vein in his body and scrambled his head for an encore.

“I bet it does,” Ed sympathized.  “You look like someone pulled you through a bush backwards.”

The overcooked noodles of earlier didn’t hold a candle to how drained Wordy felt now.  It was as if he’d had an overdose or something equally pleasant.  Still, he strained to see his teammates; he _needed_ to see them awake and unharmed by Moffet’s attempt to gain a Wordy-sized chess piece for his board.

Wordy was vaguely grateful that Lance and Alanna stayed back as Ed and Sarge maneuvered him up and to the nearest bed.  Already, sleep beckoned as Wordy counted heads and came up with a full team.  As darkness closed in, he felt Sarge’s hand grip his shoulder.

* * * * *

Greg waited until Wordy’s breathing evened out and his acting Team Leader was completely asleep.  As he waited, he studied his constable, mentally cringing at how exhausted and wrung out Wordy looked.  When the Sergeant was sure they wouldn’t wake his man up, he turned, skewering his _nipotes_ and Ed with a expectant look.  “What happened?” he demanded sharply.

“What do you remember?” Lance countered softly, cocking his head to the side.

Darkness, holding him tight and laughing at his efforts to pull free.  A vague sense of Wordy: alarm, concern, fury, terror, hope, and an odd mix of protectiveness and vindictiveness as gold warred with something…black and terrible.  Opening his eyes to see Wordy standing over him, swaying with exhaustion, gold obscuring his gray irises and his pupils blown wide like a drug addict’s.

A brief glance around told Parker that his team barely remembered _that_ much.  Switching his attention back to his nephew, Greg replied, “Bits and pieces, but nothing after we entered the last room in the factory.”  Around him, his team murmured agreement.

“It was a trap,” Ed announced bluntly, his expression tense and worried.  “Holleran called me after Wordy reported in; whatever it was, it took everyone down except Wordy.”

Alanna cut in.  “It was a family curse, straight out of the Lestrange family grimoire, but someone modified it in two places.”

“The release phrase and the trigger mechanism,” an unknown voice finished, drawing the group around to see an Unspeakable, hood up and golden runes on the trim of his robes and hood.  Team One automatically closed ranks around the two kids to shield them from the man’s view.

The Unspeakable chuckled, pushing his hood back to reveal shaggy white locks and silver eyes.  “The grimoire, if you please,” he requested, holding out one hand.

When none of Team One would move, Alanna rolled her eyes and passed the tome to Lou, who handed it to the Unspeakable.

The man flipped through the tome, a frown on his face.  Without looking up, he addressed them.  “Auror Onasi came to me for information about family curses and how to break them; I provided him with this grimoire, but after he left my office, I realized I had overlooked a key detail in his explanation.”

“What detail was that?” Greg inquired, intrigued by the twist of an Unspeakable helping two Wild Mages.

Silver eyes were solemn as their owner looked up.  “Consider, if you will, Sergeant Parker, the time, effort, and expense – both financial and in terms of magical strength – that this trap required.  What Auror Lane and your niece have, so far, left out, is that today’s events were orchestrated by Dr. Moffet in an attempt to coerce Auror Wordsworth into working for him.”

Gasps came from Wordy’s teammates and Greg dropped one hand to his constable’s shoulder and squeezed it, ever so slightly.

“If we consider that Dr. Moffet’s end goal was to have Auror Wordsworth as his inside man, then he has expended a great deal of effort, only to have that effort fail.”

“Wordy was too stubborn for him,” Spike burst out.

“Perhaps,” the Unspeakable granted.  “I cannot agree; Dr. Moffet is far too shrewd, far too detail-oriented, and thorough to overlook the not inconsiderable fact that your team is both honorable and incredibly loyal to each other.”

“So he tried to stack the deck by putting Team One on the line, trade Wordy’s loyalty for our lives,” Ed argued, but Greg was getting a sinking feeling, a snarl in his gut as his sixth sense caught the Unspeakable’s train of thought.

“No, Eddie, even putting _us_ in jeopardy wouldn’t have been enough for Moffet; he’d have wanted a surer bet than that, especially with _mio nipotes_ and their Wild Magic around to throw a wrench in the works.”

“Exactly, Sergeant Parker,” the Unspeakable agreed, stopping at a particular page in the grimoire.  He looked it over, nodding to himself.  “And I believe I know what Dr. Moffet used as his…insurance, if you will.”

“What?” Jules asked anxiously, hovering on the other side of Wordy’s bed.

The Unspeakable set the grimoire down on an empty bed and pulled a pair of glasses from inside his robes, perching them on his nose and walking closer to the brunet constable.  Greg sidled out of his way, quietly nudging his _nipotes_ farther inside his team’s protective circle.  But the Unspeakable focused all his attention on Wordy, lifting first one wrist, then the other with a soft exclamation.

“Ah, here we are,” he practically purred, tapping one finger against a bracelet none of them had ever seen before.  Deftly, the old wizard slipped a knife between Wordy’s skin and the bracelet, yanking it outwards to neatly sever the mystery bracelet.

“What is _that_?” Spike demanded, leaning around Lance to get a better look.

“Looks like a runic bracelet,” Alanna observed.

“Precisely so, Lady Calvin,” the Unspeakable replied, turning and holding the severed leather out to her; she took it hesitantly.  “ _This_ , you will find, is one of the greatest offenses against free will that I have encountered in more years than I care to count.  It was used by the Lestrange family to insure that each successive generation held to the ideals and values of the family, regardless of whether or not they _wished_ to.”

Alanna shuddered; her brother glanced at the runes he couldn’t read and then back to the Unspeakable.  “But something like that would be more effective on an adolescent wizard, wouldn’t it?”

One white brow arched as the man turned, his expression serious.  “Certainly, Heir Calvin, it was far more common for the Lestranges to use this device on their youngest members; it ensured they would grow up as their elders intended.  However, it works just as well on an adult as a child.”

Greg’s jaw set and he glared at the strip of leather.  “What did it do to my constable?” he demanded, his voice dangerously soft.

Incredibly, the Unspeakable smiled, a tight, triumphant smile.  “Nothing.”

“Say what?” Lou questioned; beside him, Spike looked just as astonished.

“Dr. Moffet left one thing out of his calculations, likely because he did not know,” the Unspeakable chuckled.  “Heir Calvin, how often does a witch or wizard access their magical core?”

Lance tilted his head to the side.  “Almost constantly, sir.  Even if we don’t use our magic, it’s still part of us.”  He shrugged, looking up at his uncle and the rest of Team One.  “It’s automatic, like breathing.”

Sam’s eyes lit up.  “Squibs do the same thing, don’t they?”

“Yes,” the Unspeakable confirmed.  “And that unconscious access of the magical core is how the bracelet operates.  The longer it is worn, the more magic it accesses and twists to suit the creator’s purpose.  Taint a person’s magic and they almost inevitably follow that taint, regardless of their dearest beliefs and values.  As I said, such a thing violates free will in a truly abominable fashion.”

“Then how’d Wordy escape it without a scratch?” Ed demanded.

“Not quite without a scratch, Auror Lane,” the Unspeakable demurred, gesturing to Wordy’s current state.  “However, I quite take your meaning.”  Silver eyes gleamed.  “Auror Wordsworth cannot access his magical core without pain, am I correct?”

Though none of them answered, their silence was answer enough for the Unspeakable.

The Unspeakable drew breath to continue, but Spike bounced; he’d figured it out.  “Wordy doesn’t access his magical core constantly, like everyone else, ‘cause every time he _does_ , it hurts,” he blurted, “That’s why he wasn’t affected.”

“To find the source of the curse and then break it, he _did_ have to use magic,” the Unspeakable pointed out quietly.  “However, our young wild cards turned the odds in our favor.”  He smiled broadly.  “In particular, _you_ , Heir Calvin.”

Sapphire swung up.  “Me?” Lance echoed, astonished.  “But my magic…”  He fell silent, biting his lip.

Greg wasn’t quick enough to block the Unspeakable as the man moved past him to grip the teenager’s shoulders.  “No, Heir Calvin, you did everything right.  It was _not_ your magic that caused the effects you saw, but rather, the competition between your magic and the foul device Dr. Moffet planted on your kinsman.”

“What do you mean?” Alanna questioned.

Greg rubbed his chin, thinking it over, running through what little he knew…and the pieces clicked together.  “When you lent Wordy your magic, the bracelet activated.”  The Unspeakable nodded once, gesturing for Parker to continue.  “Wordy’s not used to using magic at all, much less dealing with two different types of magic fighting for control.”

“Just so,” the Unspeakable agreed.  “More than that, the bracelet intensified what magic it _could_ access, creating a destructive loop as the Wild Magic _also_ intensified, blocking the bracelet’s attempt to twist Auror Wordsworth’s magic.  The conflict caused the out of character behavior Auror Wordsworth exhibited.”

His eyes returned to Lance.  “ _You_ saved him, by pulling your magic away before the conflict could cause physical damage.  Your magic, in its turn, latched onto the device’s magic; as you pulled your magic back…”  The Unspeakable tugged the severed bracelet from Alanna and closed the loop; then he turned the bracelet and pulled on the solid area.  “…your magic pulled the device’s magic with it until…”  A _snapping_ sound made everyone save the Unspeakable jump.

Calmly, the Unspeakable turned the bracelet and indicated the runes on its surface.  For a few seconds, Greg couldn’t get a good look as Sam, Lou, and Spike craned their heads, blocking his view.  Spike traced something on the bracelet, whistling under his breath.  “Lance’s magic did that?” the bomb tech asked.

“Spike.”

“Oh, sorry, Boss.”  Spike passed his Sergeant the strip of leather and Greg allowed his own impressed whistle as he ran a finger over the runes, each and every one bisected by a hairline crack.

The Unspeakable smiled broadly.  “And that, gentlemen, is the advantage of having a pair of Wild Mages on your side.”  His gaze shifted to Greg.  “You are wise to keep them out of the magical world for the foreseeable future, Sergeant Parker.  But they face no threat from me and mine, on that you have my word.”

“And my constable?” Greg questioned cautiously.

Silver eyes flicked to the sleeping man.  “I would suggest, once he wakes, persuading him to allow Heir Calvin to share a small amount of magic.  That should heal any lingering damage Dr. Moffet’s device caused.  Beyond that…” the Unspeakable shrugged, “…a good night’s rest should set Auror Wordsworth to rights.  Lighter duty, if you can, for a day or so.”

“How do we keep this from happening again?” Jules cut in.

The Unspeakable considered that.  “I shall speak to Auror Onasi and see if any members of Team Three have been magically compromised; Dr. Moffet’s device did not find its way to Auror Wordsworth without help.  However, Dr. Moffet expended considerable effort and expense for no return; I doubt he will be willing to do so twice, particularly when he must be aware that his device had no long-term effect.”

He shrugged, glancing down at Wordy.  “By now, Dr. Moffet has gone underground once more.  Since this makes, by my count, three times he has acted against your team in particular, I will see to it that our more detailed files are made available to you and your team, Sergeant Parker.”

“Thank you,” Greg replied, giving the Unspeakable as much of a smile as he could.

“Beyond that, I fear we will simply have to wait for Dr. Moffet’s next move,” the white-haired man concluded with a grimace.

“Lovely,” Spike muttered.

Greg considered, then cleared his throat.  “Okay, guys, let’s go somewhere else, let Wordy get some sleep, all right?”

Nods came from his teammates, though Ed planted himself in the chair right next to Wordy’s bed.  Greg didn’t bother protesting…if Ed hadn’t done it, he would’ve.  Instead, he quietly ushered his teammates, _nipotes_ , and the Unspeakable out.


	6. Epilogue

Wordy woke up with another migraine headache, too miserable to even groan.  Even through his eyelids, the dim light of the room exacerbated his migraine.  The headache was too fierce for him to go back to sleep and he was reluctant to even twitch for fear of making it worse; rolling over to block out the light wasn’t even an option with how badly he felt.  He kept his eyes closed and tried to relax despite the agony, praying the pain would curl up and go away.

“I know you’re awake,” a soft voice remarked; Wordy’s eyes snapped open and he jerked back without thinking.  The light jabbed at him and he moaned as his headache seemed to increase by a factor of ten.

“Sarge?” the constable whispered.

“Shh, drink this,” Sarge coached, levering Wordy upright enough to see and grab the potion vial.  “Should take care of the worst of it.”

Wordy nodded, grimacing at the taste as he gulped the potion down.  “What time is it?” he rasped out.

“A bit after midnight.”

An astonished blink.  “Sarge, we’ve got work tomorrow,” he protested without thinking.

“No, we don’t,” Sarge corrected with a tiny smile.  “Commander Holleran pulled rank and gave us all a day; he told Dr. Toth we were targeted on a classified call and needed a day.”  For a moment, silence hung between the two men.  “Wordy, how you doing?”

“Been better,” Wordy croaked.

He saw his Sergeant nod.  “I want to tell you, Wordy; you did good work today.”  There was a self-deprecating smile from the other man.  “Never expected you to have to deal with something like this when I made you acting Team Leader.”

Wordy huffed a laugh.

Parker’s expression turned serious.  “Sleep as long as you need to, Wordy; we’ll talk more in the morning, all right?”

The big man fidgeted.  “Sarge, um…”  How to tell his Sergeant that he needed a few days without seeing two certain teenagers…

Somehow, Sarge guessed his thoughts.  “We’ll talk about it in the morning, Wordy; there’s a few things you don’t know yet.”

Though curious, Wordy was more than willing to wait, especially since, with his headache mostly gone, sleep was beckoning again.  “Copy that, Sarge.”

As Wordy shifted and curled up again, he felt Sarge’s hand on his shoulder.  “Excellent job, Constable Wordsworth; I’m proud of you.”

A smile quirked his jaw.

“Thanks, Sarge.”

 

_~ Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fade to black... I hope ya'll enjoyed Team One's latest round against the detestable Dr. Moffet. Thank you all for reading and if any of you are willing to drop a line or two in a comment, I'd be much obliged.
> 
> Next up and starting March 8th, 2019 is "Proving Ground – Auror Academy". Yes, it's time to see how Team One handles their magic-side evaluations.
> 
> See you on the battlefield!


End file.
